A great deal of silence.

"Betsy, what have you been up to?"

A great deal of silence, then an angry voice from the other side.

"You didn't call me while I was in the hospital!"

Oh, yeah. Wow. That's right. The operation. The eye surgery that Betsy was going in for two days after I arrived in L.A. The eye surgery she had been talking about for months, and that she had asked me to consider canceling my trip over. The eye surgery!

Instead of becoming immediately apologetic, I decided the best course of action was to pretend that eye surgery was not that big of a deal.

"Oh . . . wow . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . the surgery. How'd that go?"

There was a sound of a telephone receiver falling onto a bed, then being dragged slowly across cotton sheets, and then a clumsy knocking on the nightstand, and finally tumbling into place in the hang-up position, and then, more silence. Not quite as dramatic as a good hard click and dial tone, but effective nonetheless.

The future of the relationship was in danger. What should I do? I consulted my guy friends and a.s.sociates for help. Most were married or in relationships and reacted similarly: "Oh, man, that's bad. It's almost unforgivable."

"Start with flowers every day and apologize every chance that you get. It might not work, but it's worth a try."

"Get on a plane right now. Get back there and make it right."

And on and on. I decided to consult with my friend Bryce, a gay man.

"Oh, you poor guy," he said. "Why is she giving you such a hard time? You forgot!"

Thank you, gay man. You can call gay men all sorts of names and accuse them of being soft and womanly, but they are blessed with a steely reserve that is 100 percent pure male. They have no fear. Why should they? They have never had their male perspective diluted by a woman. The p.u.s.s.y whip has no power over the gay man. He has never had to face it in battle. He is not intimidated-any more than the family of four is intimidated by the medieval mace riveted to the wall next to their booth at Applebee's.

"You forgot!" said Bryce.

I forgot. You're d.a.m.ned right I forgot. That would have to do. I would approach my girlfriend with that excuse: I forgot.

I called Betsy and uttered the phrase. To show good faith, I added a little "I'm sorry . . . but I forgot." And the whole thing was settled. That is how it works in the two-year relationship! And, of course, we were left in the "commitment sweet spot" for the remainder of the two years.

Now, I know the Bryce advice would not work for me today. Gay guy counsel can be invaluable to a man in a two-year relationship, but not to a married man.

Looking back with Betsy, could I have handled things differently? Certainly. But the important thing is that I didn't, so the experience was filed away. I learned it is rarely acceptable to forget about a woman's surgery (even if it is what I would consider, by most reasonable standards, minor surgery). I would not do that again. Now, if I am away, and my wife has to have an operation, I call her before and after and after. I visit. There are cards and flowers. And my marriage is the better for it.

This is what I am thinking as I watch my adorable daughter, adorably eating Cheerios one by one off the table as we sit down to dinner. I open a bottle of Cotes du Rhone for my wife and myself. The scene is ideal. And it's real. I pour, we clink gla.s.ses, and silently, I toast. To Betsy. To Alison. To all my fake wives. To all my failed marriages. For they have made me the perfect non-ex-husband I am today.

Lesson#9

Women Are Never Too Young to Mess with Your Head by Larry Wilmore

From the moment you know you're having a girl, you're in love. The months leading up to the birth of a daughter are filled with romantic notions of father-daughter bonding. These were the things I was promised. When I fell in love with my future female offspring, the femme fruit of my loins, I was counting on this relationship. The first sure thing with a woman since breastfeeding I've ever had in my life. Well, things didn't quite work out that way. It's taken nine full years to recover and I'm only now able (through the blessings of counseling and psychotropic drugs) to tell the story. This is my journal of those dark days. The days between the precious little love of my life and me.

July 13, 1998 11:18 p.m.

Eight hours and forty-two minutes. It's so weird knowing the actual date and time your child is going to be born. Angie's doing pretty good [Larry's wife] but my lower back is still killing me. The doctor said there's nothing wrong and even suggested I could be having "sympathetic" pains. Great. (I meant that sarcastically.) I paid him six hundred dollars for him to tell me he doesn't know why the f.u.c.k my back hurts. Anyhow, I'm excited about tomorrow. I've always wanted a little girl and she's almost here. Wow, I'm starting to get emotional. Just the thought of seeing her makes me feel . . . G.o.d, I can't really put it into words. Somebody told me you fall in love with your kids the second they're born. I think I'm already there. s.h.i.t, my back hurts. I hope that's not an omen. What if there's a problem with the delivery or if she comes out with something wrong with her? I can't think like that. Everything's cool. She's going to be healthy, beautiful and healthy. s.h.i.t, I wrote healthy twice. I'm going to bed. See you in the morning, Lauren [Larry's daughter's name].

July 14, 1998 9:51 p.m.

Wow! What a day! So emotional! Angie's spending the night at the hospital. She'll be home tomorrow. She did great. I was really proud of her. And Lauren. Oh my G.o.d, what a beautiful little girl. We are so blessed. It was a little scary at first. They took her out and she had this bizarre frozen expression on her face as if she wasn't quite ready. The doctor spanked her and she didn't do anything. My heart was in my throat. Seriously, my mind went to all the worst possible outcomes imaginable. I thought, f.u.c.k, what if thinking about bad s.h.i.t happening last night led to some bad s.h.i.t happening? f.u.c.k, what if thinking about bad s.h.i.t happening last night led to some bad s.h.i.t happening? I don't even think I was breathing. She spanked her again and again nothing. Her face had no color and I felt all the blood drain out of mine. I looked at her, my eyes welled up, I can't even explain how far down I felt like I was starting to go; and then she just looked at me and let out the biggest scream you could ever imagine. Wow! Tears all around. I cried like a beotch. I mean, it was almost as if she saw me and just couldn't hold it in. The doctor said she had never seen a baby with that kind of lung power. That's my little girl! And every time I held her today, she cried. Whew, I am drained. Hitting the sack. Hey, my back doesn't hurt. I don't even think I was breathing. She spanked her again and again nothing. Her face had no color and I felt all the blood drain out of mine. I looked at her, my eyes welled up, I can't even explain how far down I felt like I was starting to go; and then she just looked at me and let out the biggest scream you could ever imagine. Wow! Tears all around. I cried like a beotch. I mean, it was almost as if she saw me and just couldn't hold it in. The doctor said she had never seen a baby with that kind of lung power. That's my little girl! And every time I held her today, she cried. Whew, I am drained. Hitting the sack. Hey, my back doesn't hurt.

July 18, 1998 1:05 p.m.

Thought I'd sneak an entry during the day, it's so hard to do anything at night. Everybody's exhausted. This is going to sound weird but I actually got my feelings hurt this morning. It seems like Lauren cries whenever I hold her. Angie thinks I'm crazy, but it's true. Every time I pick her up, she screams. What the f.u.c.k? I don't want to sound paranoid or overreact but what the f.u.c.k? That's all. You know what, I'm overreacting.

July 30, 1998 4:22 a.m.

My daughter hates me. I don't care if she's only a couple of weeks old. She hates me. And I am not OVERREACTING! Tell me if this is overreacting: I go in her room to try to get her back to sleep, cry cry cry cry cry scream cry scream cry cry cry. Angie goes in, picks her up and whimper whimper sob coo. COO! f.u.c.kING COO! What's happening to me? This is insane. I try to tell myself, she's just a baby, it doesn't mean anything, but it seems like she's doing it on purpose. I feel like I've been dumped. I'm in love with my daughter for nine months, she comes out and dumps me. Beautiful. I need a Vegas trip.

August 3, 1998 12:49 a.m.

Maybe it's because I'm black. Seriously, I've run out of reasons. I've changed my deodorant four times. I'm using a different soap, different shampoo, nothing matters. Scream, scream, scream. I hate to play the race card but what else could it be?

August 3, 1998 2:15 a.m.

I forgot, Angie's black too so it can't be that. I don't even like Haagen-Daz and I'm on my second tub. Everybody says she'll grow out of it pretty soon. Grow out of it? My daughter has to grow out of hating my f.u.c.king guts? Am I the crazy one here? I don't think so. I am seriously out of control. I gotta get it together. Give it a couple of weeks.

August 15, 1998 9:32 p.m.

Yaaay! Lauren's a month old! The family came over, everybody held her, including her great grandfather, and she smiled and laughed and cooed for everybody . . . EXCEPT ME! Stupid family! They're all like, "It's okay," "Don't let it bother you," "She's just tired," "She's going to be daddy's little girl." Well, she's not. She smiled at me once. She had gas and then threw up all over my Tommy Bahama shirt. And by the way, granddad stinks. She's got no problem with the "old people smell" but a new Tommy Bahama makes her hurl. Jesus Christ, give me a f.u.c.king break.

September 10, 1985 8:41 p.m.

I fear my son Ron is a h.o.m.os.e.xual. I mean, ballet dancer, what the h.e.l.l is that?

[Editor's note: an excerpt from an excerpt from The Reagan Diaries The Reagan Diaries was inadvertently placed in this piece. We apologize for any inconvenience and/or confusion. was inadvertently placed in this piece. We apologize for any inconvenience and/or confusion.]

October 16, 1998 11:58 p.m.

I was at Baby Gap today, buying some socks for "daddy hater." I'm so pathetic. I see a guy in there with his baby daughter and they're all laughing and smiling and having a good time. I was seething with jealousy. Seething. I've never seethed in my life. I can see why people seethe, though. It's an adrenaline rush. Your whole body's on fire. I'm okay now. I try to tell myself there's no way this can go on forever. But it's been three months. Three months. I don't know if I can last another day. I cry and cuss all the time. I need some f.u.c.king Kleenex.

October 31, 1998 10:45 p.m.

Great Halloween. We dressed up Lauren as a little princess, Angie was a beauty queen, I was a soulless void. No costume needed.

November 23, 1998 1:21 a.m.

The whole point of getting a babysitter is to sit with the child because you are unable to be present. Not and I repeat NOT BECAUSE YOUR DEMON CHILD CAN'T STAND YOUR GUTS!!!! This was Angie's first day back in the choir. My job was to sit in church with my daughter. That's all I had to do. But no, we had to get a sixteen-year-old stranger to sit there with me so my daughter doesn't scream and everybody thinks I'm beating her. And to top it off, the little jackal dumps the load of loads in her diaper and who's got to change her? I'm in the church bathroom cleaning what I can only describe as debris you'd sc.r.a.pe off the bottom of a lake in h.e.l.l; she's screaming, I'm gagging, my wife's singing, and the babysitter had an att.i.tude. I'm done. I don't have anything left. Thursday's Thanksgiving and I have absolutely nothing to be thankful for. Great. I just heard Lauren cry. Well, I'm not going in there. She's just going to cry more when she sees me. Cry your eyes out, see if I care. Cry all night, see how it feels. Wait, that's a different cry than I've heard before. Maybe I should go see what's wrong. What am I saying? I guess I still have feelings for her. I'm a horrible dad. I've just been thinking about myself. She's a baby. My baby. She doesn't know what she's doing. What's wrong with me? Have some patience. I'm going to go check on my little girl.

November 23, 1998 1:29 a.m.

That little b.i.t.c.h. She baited me. She knew I'd be weak. I can't take this anymore. I'm moving out.

December 26, 1998 9:36 p.m.

I'm still stuffed. We had Christmas dinner tonight at my mom's. I actually had a good time. I spent all night with Brendy [Larry's niece]. What a sweet little girl. We laughed and played peekaboo and laughed and played more peekaboo. It was great. I have to admit and I know this is going to sound weird-thank G.o.d no one but me will ever read this-but I felt like I was cheating. Is that weird? I mean, there's nothing wrong with playing with my niece, but the whole time I felt dirty. I even kept overstressing that she was my niece. Everybody must've thought I was drunk. That's a good idea. I should start drinking.

February 13, 1999 11:09 p.m.

Tomorrow's Valentine's Day and I could care less. Lauren will be seven months old and I don't care. Hey look, she's crawling. Big deal. Oh my G.o.d, she's trying to form words. Genius. She's eating solid foods. Don't choke. She loves going to Gymboree. Whoop-de-f.u.c.king-doo.

June 1, 1999 10:30 p.m.

Angie and Lauren are in Minnesota visiting her family. Lauren still hates me. She doesn't scream anymore. Now she jumps out of my arms when I try to hold her. That's not embarra.s.sing at all. But it's cool. Got the house to myself. No writing job for me this year. I can't stop being a smart-a.s.s in my interviews. I almost got hired on Friends Friends till I mentioned the closest they came to having someone of color on the show was when Ross had a monkey. Did nothing but watch daytime TV today in my underwear. I cannot get enough of till I mentioned the closest they came to having someone of color on the show was when Ross had a monkey. Did nothing but watch daytime TV today in my underwear. I cannot get enough of Sally Jesse Raphael Sally Jesse Raphael. People are so pathetic on that show, it's great. I'm tired of p.o.r.n. I should make some more popcorn. Lauren left her blankey. She needs it to fall asleep. It's probably too late to call Minnesota. I'm gonna put on some p.o.r.n.

July 13, 1999 7:23 p.m.

She'll be a year old tomorrow and she still won't return my calls to her. It's like I don't even exist. I've actually given up. It's weird. I think I'm over it. I don't even think about her that much anymore. Hmmm. Why did I write hmmm? I'll give it one more day.

July 14, 1999 10:57 p.m.

Way back in the recesses of my mind I thought something special would happen today. Yeah, I'm the dad, yeah, I'm supposed to be giving her a gift, but I held out hope that maybe, just maybe, she might give me a gift today. Anything. A smile, a nod, a grin, anything. I foolishly tried picking her up to give her a kiss and she squirmed out of my arms. I thought it didn't matter anymore but I was devastated. I tried to put on a good face but I was crying on the inside. Okay, the outside too. Last week, I took out the old pictures of her ultrasounds. We seemed so happy then. So many plans, so many dreams. Our bond seemed unbreakable in those innocent times. Angie's calling. Talk to you later.

July 14, 1999 11:51 p.m.

Angie called me into Lauren's room. She just said her first word: "Daddy." You gotta be f.u.c.king kidding me. Daddy! She treats me like c.r.a.p for an entire year and her first word is "Daddy"! Who does she think she's talking to? Daddy? I get my heart ripped out of its hole for what seemed like forever and that little . . .

July 14, 1999 11:59 p.m.

She just said it again. You go, girl! That's my baby! I knew she'd come around. I wasn't worried. THAT'S MY GIRL! She is the loveliest little creature on the face of the earth. f.u.c.king said, "Daddy"! High five to myself! Angie was so jealous. She said, "I carried her for nine months, nursed her from my bosom, changed almost all of her dirty diapers, and her first word is 'daddy'?"

She'll get over it. She's just a baby.

Lesson#10

Keep Some Secret Admirers Secret by Eric Slovin

I love getting invitations in the mail. It's always a thrill to find expensive stationary hiding out amidst the usual bills and junk mail. And I've never tired of seeing my name written in calligraphy on a high-grade envelope. It makes me feel fancy, like a Victorian dandy. But I'm never surprised by these invites. I always see them coming. A friend who I know is getting married sends me an e-mail asking for my home address, and a week later, an envelope comes in the mail. It's nice, but no surprise.

I was surprised once, though. It was great. It came out of nowhere. I took my time and savored the envelope before opening it. My name and address were written by the hand of a real calligraphy artist. Not printed on a computer. That meant genuine personal attention! The return address was Park Avenue. That meant top-shelf liquor! I opened it slowly and read:

Now, for me, that was a real surprise! I can't tell you how flattered I was that Eileen Silverman wanted me to come to her c.o.c.ktail party so badly she actually hired a professional calligraphist to write my name on an envelope for what must have taken, I don't know, ten solid minutes of serious calligriphization. I really appreciated that. I just had one question: Who the h.e.l.l was Eileen Silverman?! The name meant nothing to me. I was left with the panic of having completely forgotten a person who liked me enough to hire a tradesman with an antiquated skill to write my name on an expensive envelope. I decided to call the RSVP number immediately.

First, let me be honest. The name Eileen Silverman isn't real. I made it up to protect the actual person. But I think it gives a good sense of the social-demographic and religious affiliation that we're dealing with here. Actually, now that I think about it, Eileen Silverman is a little too strong. I should tone it down a bit. Let's call her . . . Rebecca Schwartz.

A woman picked up the phone.

"h.e.l.lo," I said, "I'm calling for Rebecca Schwartz."

"I'm Rebecca Schwartz."

"Hi, Rebecca, this is Eric Slovin calling."

"Eric!!!" she screamed. "I'm so glad you called!! I guess you got the invite!"

s.h.i.t! Obviously, Rebecca Schwartz was my dear friend, and I had forgotten her completely.

"Rebecca, I'm so sorry, but, uh, could you remind me how we know each other?"

"Know each other?!! We don't know each other!" she squealed with delight.

"We don't?" I asked, relieved. "Then why did you invite me to your party?"

And then she explained it. Rebecca and her girlfriends threw monthly c.o.c.ktail parties to which they invited only a very exclusive list of high-caliber single men. The only way to be invited to a party was to be handpicked and vetted by the hostess herself. It couldn't be expressed clearly enough how extraordinary a man needed to be to merit invitation. One of Rebecca's friends knew me and felt that I fit the profile.

"But who invited me?" I asked.

This seemed to confuse her.

"What do you mean who invited you? Don't you know?"

"No. I don't know anything about this."

"Well . . . that can only mean one thing," she said, her voice turning mischievous.

"Uhhh . . . yeah?"

"You have a secret admirer!!!"

"I have a what?! Who is she?!"

But no matter how much I pleaded, Rebecca Schwartz refused to tell me. She said she didn't even know, but that she wouldn't tell me even if she did.

"The only way you're gonna to find out is if you come to the party. You have to come!"

Did I, though? Did I really need to put myself in that position? Did I really want to show up alone at some strange c.o.c.ktail party thrown by a meddlesome yenta wannabe like Rebecca Schwartz? Sure, it was nice that she paid good money to have my name written in calligraphy on a fancy envelope, but I didn't even know her. Besides, if there's one thing I hate, it's Park Avenue c.o.c.ktail parties-even if there is top-shelf liquor! And who the f.u.c.k was this secret admirer?!

But, then again, who the f.u.c.k was was this secret admirer? this secret admirer?